Dear one, is it alright—if I fall in love with you tonight?
Under the heavy crystal chandeliers of the Viscount Druitt's opulent ballroom, Ciel Phantomhive saw a gleam of gold and a flash of pink.
Elizabeth.
He had expected to see her here when the evening began but the life of the Queen's Watchdog was unpredictable at best. It took no less than twenty minutes before Ciel learned that another case had been shelved onto his desk—one involving an underground prostitution gang that, surprisingly, was not affiliated with Druitt in any shape, way, or form. It would have been logical for him to have left then—admittedly rude and a severe breach of propriety, but acceptable all the same. Sebastian had even called for the carriage, Ciel's surcoat inches away from his fingertips before the young earl fixed his gaze on the porcelain demon.
"Lord Garrington is present at the ball this evening." He murmured, voice low. "His track record is less than clean and, prior to his affiliation with Druitt's human trafficking, Garrington was a frequent visitor of the high end brothels in Birmingham. Get to his manor and scope out his office—make sure to check every drawer and chest in his private chambers as well. There are rumors that he has a secret compartment near his bedroom—the fabled Red Chamber."
Sebastian's expression was neutral, an ever present smirk decorating his bloodless mouth. "Very well, my lord. And you…?"
"I shall remain here." The earl gave a firm nod. "Druitt may not be directly involved but the London underworld is an interconnected arena. He'll know something."
"And how do you plan to extract such information my lord? Surely you don't intend to dance your way to confidence?" He teased, voice both airy and courteous.
It irritated Ciel more than words could say.
"What I do is none of your concern." He sneered, his sapphire blue eye fixed on a swath of pink and gold. "Find Garrington's accounts if you need to—his books ought to be kept in a study nearby. He's a miserly man and prostitutes—the ones he hires—cost quite a bit."
When he glanced back up at Sebastian, he half expected the insolent fiend to engage in another repartee with him but the demon, discerning as he was snide, bowed low. "Yes, my lord."
"Oh, Ciel!" Elizabeth had rushed right into his arms, mere seconds after he'd made his presence known. She was dressed in a gown of pink silk, embroidered with cloth-of-gold and luminous Japanese sea pearls.
She gave him another smile—bright and beaming, the warmth of her cheer burning hotter than the July sun. "My lady." Ciel bowed shortly, coming up to press a kiss to her gloved hand. "You look lovely this evening." You look lovely all the time. He added wistfully, cognizant of her efforts to appear beautiful around him—dainty and elegant: a proper lady.
A faint flush appeared on his fiancée's cheeks—a pale, pink peach on her otherwise creamy skin. Her emerald green eyes lowered—ever so briefly—before she looked up again, a determined expression writ on her face.
"Let's go outside—to the gardens, shall we?" Elizabeth looped her arm through his, voice clear and lively. "It does get quite warm in such a festive ballroom and I've heard of Lord Druitt's violets. They say they're the most beautiful shade of amethyst, meant to look like Nyx's jewels."
Ciel complied. It was so very rare for him to grant Elizabeth anything—he either kept to his country manse most of the time or was away on the queen's business. He saw Lizzy as often as he could of course, but his damnable fixation—that burning rage, a cold wild fire searing through his body—never left. There were people who wanted him dead—slaughtered, tortured, and ultimately ten feet under. He had the enemies of his father, the adversaries of his grandmother who were now patrons of death and destruction. They were the vermin Ciel needed to eradicate on her majesty's command.
He was mired in a singular abyss that had no end—there was nothing to break his bones once he reached the bottom. Only an all consuming darkness. The hunger of Abaddon, its frenzied black claws digging into his pale flesh, wanting to bleed him dry before feasting on the prize Ciel had promised him. To the demon he had relinquished his soul, freely and without hesitation.
What more could he spare—what could he give—to the daughter of Helios, the maiden of spring? What did he have left but bricks and paper, shining metal that meant something to the depraved, shortsighted man but, in the long run, would rust and break—just like all things in this world?
"Here we are!" Her voice chirped, breaking his revere as they were met by a cooling zephyr—one hailing north, carrying with it the promise of winter. She turned to smile at him. "There were so many women in there who were fussing over my dress—Lady Millicent said I looked the sweetest petite four, a confection of strawberry pink! But," here she shook her head, "their generosity often becomes quite loquacious and I feared we may have never be able to leave once they'd caught up to us." She blushed slightly. "Does that make me terribly rude?"
"Not at all." Ciel led Elizabeth down a set of veined marble steps, the jagged streaks of black marring the stone's milky white perfection. "I am grateful for your ingenuity, my lady—you know me well."
Ciel would have most likely spent the entire evening bored, irritated, and overheated had they stayed inside. (And possibly entertaining thoughts of crucifying Ladies Millicent, Wakefield, and Annemarie.)
Elizabeth hummed in pleasure at his approval, her eyes seeking out the low-rise lily pond, overflowing with fragrant white-pink blossoms. "Don't they all look like swans, Ciel?" Her voice sounded like a cloud, faint and beautiful—almost out of reach. "See how they're drifting with the breeze? It reminds me of the first act in Swan Lake—when the prince meets Odette for the first time."
"I'm still amazed that Aunt Francis allowed you to see that production." Ciel mused. "The Russian ballet—how multicultural."
"It was beautiful." Elizabeth sighed and something in her tone made Ciel pause. There was a delicacy to it—like a precariously balanced figurine. "All the satin and velvet and gold candelabras—the backgrounds were so well done but the music! Oh if I weren't an Englishwoman I would move to Vienna in a heartbeat."
He looked at her, a faint smile on his lips. "Tchaikovsky was Russian, Elizabeth."
"Yes but Vienna is the capitol of music—the great mistress of composition and genius." She leaned against his shoulder. "Isn't it pretty to think of all the great men who'd once walked its streets? From Mozart to Beethoven to Schubert…all those wonderful men and their life's work." Her gaze slid towards the poplar trees, swaying gently under the silver moonlight.
Ciel took this time to look at her—truly look at her. It was so rare of Elizabeth to be still for long stretches of time—she was an ever present tour-de-force, a vivacious virtuoso of joy and laughter. She was the sun and sky, intertwined in a ceaseless concerto of effervescence and beauty. Though her buoyancy sometimes bordered on the obscene, it never failed to warm—even faintly—the frozen mass where his heart used to reside. She reminded him of everything that was still graceful in the world—of the happiness he had shunned in favor of vengeance and restitution.
There was something poignant about Elizabeth now, Ciel realized, observing her soft features and gentle smile.
Her smile.
It was always there and, if not on her lips, then evoked through her actions (often hasty and irrational) or the brightness of her jade green eyes. It would be so easy for Ciel to lose himself completely, to willingly lay back and drown in the caliginous hell of his own making—but.
Elizabeth. She was everything he loved from before the fire, she was everything pure and untouched.
She was his last bit of sanity, his last semblance of normalcy. Free from demons, reapers, and secret societies.
Unconsciously, Ciel's hand reached for her's and he was surprised by the firmness of her grip—warm and comforting, a ever open haven.
Just for tonight, Ciel decided, he would let himself smile. He would push aside thoughts of Sebastian and contracts and royal operations. For this one night, he would embrace the love Elizabeth gave so freely in the hopes that, one day, he would be strong enough to let go.
"Lizzy?"
"Hm?"
"Would you like to dance?"
The strings of Tchaikovsky's dance of the swans began to play and under the cover of night, their movements lit by a backdrop of diamond stars, Ciel and Elizabeth waltzed in a calm, gentle grace.
A/N: Forgive me for any inaccuracies! This is my first foray into the Black Butler universe and I'm afraid I'm still a bit new at it. (I'm slightly terrified that this is going to become a new obsession...I'm already in love with every single character.)
To be frank, after I saw the Ciel/Elizabeth relationship, I became drawn to it. There's just something so beautifully tragic about this crystalline romance - a girl who would endure sorrow and heartache for the sake of the boy she loves most while he's already promised his soul to a demon. An impossible love set in the midst of Victorian London, where murder, intrigue, and black satin were at their apex? Perfection.
(I also love Undertaker's cool thigh high boots. FLAIR right there.)
Feedback would be truly appreciated here!